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'Fog' by Cathy White

Tom’s standing under the clock in Waterloo Station, a red carnation in his buttonhole and a copy of The Daily Telegraph under his arm. He’s hoping he looks tongue-in-cheek and not like a cliché.

‘Yes, yes, I am, hi!’ Standing in front of Tom is a short (despite wearing high heels; Tom doesn’t like high heels, he thinks they look tarty) girl with long auburn hair that’s tied up in a ponytail (Tom doesn’t approve of ponytails, he thinks women should wear their hair down). He goes to give her a kiss on the cheek, but changes his mind and shakes her hand instead. ‘You must be Rachel?’

‘Yes, that’s me. I’m not late am I? The train was a bit delayed because of the fog.’

‘No, no, not at all. I got here early. I didn’t want to keep a young lady waiting. What would you like to do? I thought maybe we could go on the London Eye.’

‘The London Eye? In the fog? Will we be able to see anything?’

‘Hmm, good point, well made. How about the zoo then? The elephants might be a bit of a waste of time, but we should be ok with the giraffes though, eh? Or maybe we should just go to the aquarium? They’re nice and brightly coloured and, as far as I know, you don’t get fog underwater.’

Rachel’s mobile rings (Tom doesn’t approve of mobile telephones). ‘Sorry, I’d better get this, it might be a friend whose mum has fallen down the stairs and needs help or something. Hello? Emma? Are you ok? What’s that? Your mum’s fallen down the stairs and you need help? No, no problem, that’s ok, I’ll be right there.’ She turns to Tom. ‘I’m really sorry but my best friend’s mum’s had an accident and I’ll have to go. Really sorry, another time maybe?’

Tom shrugs. That’s three dates in a row that have ended up abruptly with phone calls from best friends in distress. Funny that.

I’m not lover of art. I don’t know how to react to a splurge of colours on canvas. Or appreciate fine brush strokes on paper. And yet, this evening, I chance upon your painting. It has started to rain, and I don’t have an umbrella. So I step inside the nearest door. As I brush off the raindrops from my coat, I look around. I’ve walked into an art gallery, and you are there, beaming at me. Urging me to come and look at your art. I hesitate. I don’t want to move around and make appropriate noises. Nor make eye contact with you. I have things to do. But you seem so alone in this space. So needy of appreciation that I walk around the room. You paint local scenes. The farmers’ market. The Dover crossing. The white cliffs seem to be your favourite subject. I cannot believe what I see. This painting: The study of a boy with an aeroplane. I look closer and my breath stops. I turn to look at you. Are you some kind of sorcerer who has drawn me in here? Where did you do this painting? I ask. By the…

Salome is looking shabby. Time to give her a bit of a hand-wash. I don’t know why I called her Salome. It suited her, I suppose. My Arthur thought I was mad naming a knitted toilet roll cover, but I have names for all my bits-and-bobs.
Last Wednesday in the month today and so ‘cleaning out the china cabinet day’. As I swirl the Fairy Liquid in warm water, I think how Mother told me to always keep to my list of chores, no matter what.
Arthur died on the third Thursday in February. It was ‘clean the horse-brasses’ day. Once the Powers That Be had dealt with him, I set to. Now, whenever I do the brasses, I think of Arthur, his chin on his chest and his arms folded neatly. The nurses thought I was bonkers when I told them what I was rushing home for. There was no point hanging around, though, was there?
I’m just drying off The Royal Albert when I hear the back gate click. Bloody Susan again. Wonder what she wants to borrow this time?
“Lena? Just coming to see you’re al…